Jacquetta/Chapter IX
The relaxation was but momentary, the reconciliation temporary, as poor Jacquetta discovered when she sat down with the old ladies to dinner. They had retreated into their cold reserve. They scarcely spoke. The dinner might have been taken as a poor copy of that of Sintram’s father. The old Norse baron set suits of armour round his stone table when he had no other guests, and caroused with them. It seemed as if this French baron had invited two mummies to his table. The old women looked as dry and brown and stiff, and were almost as silent.
This state of affairs could not continue. Whether due to the remonstrances of Alphonse, or to the baroness’s sense of the impossibility of maintaining the estrangement in all its frostiness, or to the fact that, when visitors came, she was obliged to dissemble her dissatisfaction and behave with civility to Jacquetta, or, lastly, to the effect of the bride’s beauty and neatness and sweetness of disposition, it came about that a tolerable modus vivendi was established, The dowager and the aunt spoke to Jacquetta at table, and saluted her morning and evening with courtesy, but they never showed her the slightest affection, never allowed her to feel that they had taken her into their confidence and affections.
Jacquetta was obliged to be satisfied with this. There was no longer any show of insolence, nothing positive which she could lay hold of as a grievance to complain about, but they studiously shut her out from all intimacy with themselves, and made her feel lonely.
Jacquetta had an English girl’s energy and activity of mind and body. She could not lapse into doing nothing. She craved for some occupation. At first there were numerous calls. Visitors came to pay their respects, and she and her husband had to return these calls, but when this was over the time began to hang heavy on her hands, and she asked for something to do.
The garden, she had been told, was a field in which she might exert herself without running counter to the prejudices of the dowager. Accordingly she began vigorously to take the garden in hand. She had the beds weeded, the plants trimmed, staked, and pruned. She ordered a conservatory to be run up, and inspected the construction. Then she stocked it. But winter was drawing on, and in winter the garden is not interesting. Still, for a fortnight she was engrossed in bulbs, superintending the potting of tulips, hyacinths, polyanthuses, and lilies.
Then she resolved on re-furnishing the drawing-room. Here she was treading on dangerous ground, but she was firm, conciliatory, at the same time, and showed so much taste, that the old ladies, though they grumbled, were unable to oppose her. The money spent was her own, and they knew very well that everything connected with the place was shabby.
Next came a charming victoria and a beautiful pair of horses, the harness silver-mounted, with coronets on the blinkers, breast-plates, saddles, and an English coachman sent out from home, her father’s present. The coachman was a married man; he brought also his young wife, who could act as lady’s maid to Jacquetta, and a young brother as groom.
When the two old ladies drove out with the young baroness in this splendid equipage with two livery servants on the box, in all the trimness of English appointment, the old ladies sat as stiff as pokers, and their hearts were puffed up with pride. Actually, Jacquetta had insisted on giving both ladies the places of honour, and on sitting with her back to the horses. Mdlle. de Pleurans had protested, but she accepted the offer, and as the new carriage drove through Nantes, the old ladies bowed condescendingly to their acquaintances whom they met. After this they were a shadow more gracious than previously. No stranger would have perceived the difference, but Jacquetta, by considering their conduct on this day with that of previous days, could see an improvement. They were, however, too proud to allow the change to be emphatic, it was enough that it was perceptible. Alphonse now abandoned all thoughts of following his profession as a lawyer. His object in taking it up was no longer an object. There was no occasion for him to labour at a profession. He had means at his disposal without it.
Now he began to be interested in his estate and farm. Hitherto things had gone on in a hand-to-mouth fashion, because he had not had the means for putting the property into order; for repairing the dilapidated farm buildings, and building new conveniences. He began to read books on agriculture, and to think he would make of Plaissac a model farm. Everything should be on the most modern system. He was enthusiastic about English farming. He must have Guernsey cows, and South Down sheep; the poultry reared by the peasants were of an inferior description, more bone than meat, and desultory layers. He would have the best sorts over from England. He was out all day, trudging about the farm, and displaying to the astonished peasants a great deal of book-learning about draining, and manuring, and rotating of crops, and breeding of cattle. What he read one evening, whilst smoking, he retailed to the wondering men next day, and forgot on the third. He had the idea that he was going to quadruple the value of the estate; but to do this he must first sink capital in it. So he began the sinking process, which is a very easy one. Fortunately he had a Frenchman’s natural shrewdness and caution about money, and though he schemed and talked about a great outlay, he did not spend very much, and what he did spend was not wasted. Indeed, everything on the estate was fallen into such a condition of ruin that necessary repairs had to be undertaken and finished before improvements could be begun; though not, of course, before they could be talked about.
The baron was out all day. Jacquetta saw very little of him. She was left alone in the house. She could not spend much time, in the winter, in her greenhouse and gardens, nor drive about when the weather was unfavourable. She went at least once a week to her Aunt Betsy, and Betsy shook her head. She thought her niece was dispirited, was not looking well. Jacquetta did not complain, but she was silent and had lost her sparkle. No wonder. It was dull at Plaissac with those crabbed old women who were civil but not cordial. The English community at Nantes was not large, and Jacquetta did not take a fancy to any of those who helped to compose it. Mrs Asheton she did not much like. The lady could not forgive Jacquetta for having quarrelled with, and thrown over, her son. An unintelligible feeling kept Jacquetta from making a friend of Miss Graham. She knew that the opinion of society at Nantes gave this blonde beauty to James Asheton. Jacquetta was thoroughly true in heart to her husband, but she did not forget that Asheton had been her admirer, and she really had liked him better than the baron, till he made the fatal mistake of ridiculing her mother. Was there, far down in her heart, a fibre of unacknowledged jealousy? Shd did not suppose there was, but she could not like Miss Graham.
Towards James Asheton, Jacquetta acted with ease and tact. She let bygones be altogether bygones. She spoke to and greeted him frankly, and not by word or sign gave him occasion to think that she remembered his mistake. She did not see much of him. He was sulky at having forfeited her. But when he was in her presence, and the consul’s daughter was also there, he was unusually civil to the latter. He resolved to show the young baroness that he was heart-whole; he would let her suppose that his attraction had been, all along, elsewhere—that she had deluded herself if she supposed he had at one time cared for her.
One day Jacquetta put her hand on her husband’s arm, and said, ‘Alphonse, you are not going on the farm now. You will come with me to the presbytery, I want to call upon M. le cure and his sister. I do not know her, but I am told she is very good.’
‘Oh, yes, she is good—but devoté and narrow.’
‘You will come with me ? ’
‘Certainly, Jacquetta, you have but to order and I obey.
The curé was a worthy man, frank and cheerful, a little blunt in his manner, but very kindhearted. He was to be seen in all weathers about his parish, with his cassock tucked up under his girdle, exposing his coarse cloth trousers, very old and discoloured, and his great shoes with thick soles. Under his arm or in his hand he carried his red-edged breviary, the red rubbed off wherever the thumb went, and the cover discoloured with wet. He had been in the parish for a great number of years, and was respected by all, even by those men who sneered at priests and professed to live without religion. His house was kept by his sister, a poor little deformed creature, no higher than a child, but full of energy and practical good sense. She had a harsh, shrill voice, but the gentlest and sweetest of spirits, was devoted to her brother, and proud of the parsonage, which she kept beautifully neat. She always looked at the bright side of things, was ready at all times to do others a service, and was so humble that the least attention shown to her overwhelmed her with gratitude. The poor little hunchback suffered a good deal of pain in her spine, but she never murmured; her face was plain in feature but full of the light of a patient and loving spirit. By some unfortunate fatality she had been christened Gracieuse, a more inappropriate name could not have been chosen for her, but when she was an infant her deformity was not suspected, it had come on gradually with advancing years.
The parsonage was not a large house, it had one good room in it that served as reception and dining-room, very plainly furnished, and a library in which the curé kept his small collection of books, all professional except a Quintus Curtius in Latin, the only book of light reading he possessed. The salle had no carpet of any sort in it, and the walls were adorned with a couple of coarse sacred pictures, a portrait of Pius IX, and a statuette of Notre Dame de la Salette. The curé dined on Sundays, at least once a month, at the chateau, so that Jacquetta knew him; but she had never been to the parsonage before. She was aware that he had strongly disapproved of the baron’s engagement; he and the two old ladies had discussed it together; but she did not know that when the marriage had taken place he had given the dowager sensible advice, ‘Allons! it is done. Make the best of it.’
He was very pleased to see the young people, and he thanked the châtelaine for calling on him. He made conversation whilst his sister hurried from the kitchen to change her gown and brush her hair, and put on a clean cap and apron before appearing. When poor Gracieuse entered, and had been introduced to the baroness, the curé asked Alphonse to come out round the garden with him, he wished to show him a tool-house he had erected, and a potting-table of his own invention. When they were alone together, ‘Well, now!’ said the curé, ‘how does your mother treat your wife?’
Alphonse shrugged his shoulders.
‘My friend, we must make allowances for the prejudices of old people. I, myself, maybe, am not without my prejudices; but—the young baroness is charming. Here and there, in nooks and corners, under hedges and walls on north sides, the frost lingers long after the spring sun has begun to laugh at the earth and bid it break into flower, but in the end—everywhere—the frost disappears. It is a matter of time. You must be particularly attentive to the young lady, she will find the chateau dull, and she has only you to look to to enliven it. Come, you have seen my potting-table, let us return to the salon.’
In the meantime Jacquetta had approached the object of her visit.
‘Mademoiselle,’ she said with her broken French, which had a certain charm and sweetness in it when proceeding from her mouth, accompanied by her pleasant smile, ‘I have come to you with a petition. Time hangs heavy on my hands. In winter there is not much I can do in my garden. I am of an eager spirit, I must do something, and I have come here to ask you if it be possible for me to execute what I have in mind.’
‘But, madam, you have only to command me.’
‘Pardon, I have to entreat you. It is a very, very great favour I ask. Without your help I can do nothing.’
‘I place myself at your disposal, Madame la Baronne.’
‘Mademoiselle, in England of late years it has become quite the custom at Christmas to have trees covered with lights and presents for children. We generally there give a Christmas-tree to the poor little ones of a parish. I have a desire at the approaching festival to have such a tree. I see that the peasants hereabouts are very poor, and some of the children have not warm clothing for the winter. Do you think we could set to work and knit them socks and worsted shawls, and make little jackets, and cut out flannel petticoats?’
‘Oh, madame! madame la baronne?’ The cripple held up her hands and her eyes tilled with tears. ‘The good God put this into your heart!’
‘But,’ continued Jacquetta, ‘I can do nothing without you. I will supply the flannel, and the wool, and the cloth, and the buttons—in fact all the material, if I can persuade you to help me in making the little garments—if I might come here twice a week in the afternoons or evenings and work with you.’
‘Oh, madame! madame la baronne!’—and the poor hunchback came to her from her chair and fell on her knees and kissed her hands. ‘M. le curé will pray for you.’
‘Do not, in pity do not,’ said Jacquetta, alarmed and withdrawing her hands. ‘It is only that I want to do here what we do at home, and keep up old associations. I must ask of you to intercede with your brother, M. le curé. I do not quite like to have the tree at the chateau; I would rather you had it here, if you and M. le curé would not greatly mind.’
‘Mind? Oh, mon Dieu! mind! It would be the happiest day of our lives.’
‘Then it is settled.’
‘Settled! oh, I am bewildered. Who are to come?’
‘All the children of the parish.’
‘But—it is too much—all to receive presents! ’
‘Why not? I should much like it. If you do not mind.’
‘Oh, we shall be too pleased. But, madame, if the Christmas-tree be in our salon and not at the chateau, the stupid children will suppose that we give it, and you will not be sufficiently thanked as the giver.’
‘But it will be yours as well as mine. I shall find a little material, but you will furnish the room and have all the trouble.’
‘Ah, bah! that is nothing. You will have the merit.’
Then in came the curé and Alphonse. The sister, unable to restrain herself, in her shrill, ear-piercing tones screamed the news to her brother. The curé listened and nodded his head. ‘It is well. It is a good thought. I thank you, madame, in the name of my parishioners, and of my sister, and of myself. I see, mon ami,’ he turned to the baron, ‘that your wife is dispelling the frost everywhere, driving it out of the nooks of old cold hearts that look to the north. Come, let us hope, let us be sure, the violets will bloom where now lies the ice, everywhere, everywhere, mon ami!’